


the darkness goes blue

by bringyouhometoo



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringyouhometoo/pseuds/bringyouhometoo
Summary: There’s a cottage at the end of a lane, grey slate and peeling blue window-frames.





	the darkness goes blue

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the pond squad. No I'm not fine thank you for asking.

There’s a cottage at the end of a lane, grey slate and peeling blue window-frames. 

It overlooks the ocean, so you can stand at the kitchen sink and see the waves crashing onto the surf, or lie in bed at night and listen to the rush of water. And there’s an old writing desk, tucked away in its own little room with a window that opens directly out onto the meadow, dandelions and bluebells crowding around the windowsill, filling the room with their scent in the spring.

And here’s Amy Pond, hair falling across both shoulders as she writes, eyebrows furrowed with concentration. There’s a plate of biscuits next to her, and the sky is rapidly turning dark outside; she’s already straining her eyes to see the words that she’s forming on the page. He pops his head around the corner, tuts exaggeratedly, and turns on the light for her.

“Hey!” Amy turns around, half-laughing through her stern tone. “You’re spoiling the mood!”

“And  _ you’re  _ spoiling your eyesight,” he says, and Amy ducks her head, shrugs off his concern like she’s still not quite used to it.

When she next looks up from her page, there’s a cup of tea sitting next to the biscuits, and she smiles thoughtlessly, looking out and watching the last flares of sunset tinting the horizon red.

At night, sometimes, when she can’t sleep, she rolls over in bed and just  _ stares  _ at him, at the familiar planes of his shoulders, at the slight downward curl to his mouth, the rise and fall of his chest, pale in the moonlight. She has to stop herself, in those moments, from reaching out, from  _ touching,  _ from making sure he’s really real, really still here - 

Sometimes, she  _ can’t  _ stop herself, and then he wakes up, and smirks at her. “Hands.”

“Shut up,” she’ll say, rolling over onto him and making him do just that.

In the summer, there are picnics on the pebbly beach, long days where she’ll hide under a straw hat, rub sun-cream into her skin and hope for a tan; shriek when he comes racing out of the water to fling cold seaweed over her legs. They swim, sometimes so far out into sea that Amy can flip onto her back and just see the sky, just blue stretching out in every direction, can float, weightless, and forget there’s anywhere but here, any time but now.

At night he builds her a driftwood fire, and they sit under the stars and watch the colours leap into the dark, blue-green-pink-red. Amy leans her head against his shoulder, thinks absentmindedly of another night under another starry sky.

Here’s Amy Pond, sending off a manuscript at the post office and stopping in the village to buy milk and eggs. 

Here’s Amy Pond, standing in her doorway and laughing helplessly as she watches him trying to use the ancient scythe they’d found in the loft to mow the lawn.

Here’s Amy Pond, curled up on the sofa and reading an old Agatha Christie paperback, wrapped up in two jumpers and his old scarf to ward off the persistent draft coming in off the ocean.

***

And here’s Amy Pond, sitting on the fire escape of her too-big apartment, watching the cars and the lights go by below her.

She’ll go in soon, when the night chill becomes too painful against her flimsy nightclothes; she’ll go in, get back into bed, and tell him that it was just a bad dream.

For now, though, she’ll sit here, the metal staircase digging into the backs of her thighs, look up into the sky, and pretend she can still see the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> @amesjpond on twitter for more of...whatever this is


End file.
